


Minrathous

by KyeS (FancyTrinkets)



Series: Galen Trevelyan – Mage, Inquisitor, Amatus [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Maturity, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Minrathous (Dragon Age), POV Dorian Pavus, Past Dorian Pavus/Rilienus, Personal Growth, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 12:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30139383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/KyeS
Summary: Set just before Trespasser. In Minrathous, Dorian reconnects with an old friend and tries unsuccessfully to avoid his father.It's late afternoon in Minrathous and Dorian Pavus sits in a comfortable chair on his third floor balcony. When he looks up from his reading, he can take in the view of the grand but crumbling city, its foundations held together in some places by magic alone. His father is waiting to speak with him in the parlor downstairs, or so he's been told, but Magister Halward hasn't yet waited long enough. And so Dorian turns the page and simply keeps reading.This reads perfectly well as a completely stand-alone fic, though it also fits within my series.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Series: Galen Trevelyan – Mage, Inquisitor, Amatus [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216670
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Minrathous

**Author's Note:**

> Dorian, if romanced, has a comment in Trespasser about having seen his father only a couple of times before leaving Tevinter. I wanted to explore that a little, and also give some context to him having those sending crystals at the ready. This can be taken as a completely stand-alone fic, though it also fits within my series.

It's late afternoon in Minrathous and Dorian Pavus sits in a comfortable chair on his third floor balcony. He's drinking a tonic, slightly more sweet than bitter, just as he likes it. And when he looks up from his reading, he can take in the view of the grand but crumbling city, its foundations held together in some places by magic alone.

His father is waiting to speak with him in the parlor downstairs, or so he's been told, but Magister Halward hasn't yet waited long enough. And so Dorian turns the page and simply keeps reading.

In his lap is a very old manuscript, bound together with other documents to form the substance of a book called _Philosophies, Miscellaneous and Sundry_. It's the sort of rare, unique item that an altus can't acquire without searching for it in private libraries, provided he's got the connections to make that happen. And, as it turns out, Dorian does still have some connections. He hasn't burned _every_ bridge behind him. And of the bridges he did burn — some of them rather spectacularly — a few have been miraculously rebuilt, thanks to his close association with the Inquisition and the power it wields.

The manuscript itself is called _A Treatise on the Topic of Slavery and the Moral Imperative of the Banishment Thereof._ So, yes. He's here for a month with no Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan around to keep him delightfully occupied in the ars erotica, and instead he's been diving into some fun, light reading. 

That's a joke, of course — his own delightfully sardonic sense of humor, at it again. It's dense and terribly boring reading, in fact, but it's necessary. He intends to school himself in the history of Tevinter's several failed anti-slavery movements — the records of which are now mostly lost and destroyed. But it's possible to find a few writings here and there if you're diligent. And Dorian has been diligent. He knows he'll be wise to learn the history if he wants to avoid the mistakes of the past and start an abolition movement that can actually succeed. And that _is_ what he wants. Real change around here. Not more of the same. If he has to start agitating for change from afar — while remaining comfortably ensconced in the south at Trevelyan's side — then that's precisely what he'll do.

This particular volume came to him by way of Rilienus — well, Rilienus' wife, actually. Because he has one of those now, and she's lovely — a clever, forthright woman, who above all else wants a pleasing life for herself and her husband — which means they've been supportive friends to each other, all the while taking lovers of the gender they each prefer. To assuage the rest of their elite social circle, she's been fabricating all sorts of medical excuses for why she hasn't yet fallen pregnant.

"The healers aren't sure what's wrong with me. But we still have hope." 

That's how she put it last week, when she and Rilienus ushered him into the beautiful library that used to belong to her parents. She sounded every bit the contrite, beleaguered wife, but she exchanged a knowing smile with her husband, and it was abundantly clear that they'd never touched each other — not in any way that would disgust them both. Good for them, of course — defying a marriage consummation that neither of them wanted — and yet it worried Dorian to hear it.

"Dangerous gambit, if you're caught."

"We couldn't all leave Tevinter to find safety in the south," Rilienus said, looking wistful for a moment, then hiding it away again. "Speaking of which, what's he like, this Inquisitor of yours?"

"Heard the rumors, have you?"

"Just a few," Rilienus said, but then he grinned, bold and wolfish, suggesting that yes, in fact, he'd heard quite a lot of them.

And Dorian knew just the sort of answer he was looking for.

"He's a southern mage, so you know what that means — woefully under-educated in advanced theoretical magic. Spectacular with battlemagic, though, I'll give him that. And he spent many years enjoying the company of men in his Circle of Magi — a permissive one, I'm told, for the south. So he knows what he's doing in the bedroom, at least."

"Good for you, then."

"Yes," Dorian said, "it's been very good for both of us."

That was all Rilienus wanted — the answer to the politely-left-unspoken question 'how's the sex?' And Dorian didn't mind telling him enough to satisfy that base curiosity. The rest of it, he kept to himself. It would serve no purpose — except a hurtful one — if he were to talk about the depth of his feelings for Trevelyan — the respect and regard between them, the love and affection. Not to mention Dorian's easy use of that treasured word, 'amatus,' which no altus living in Tevinter would ever dare to speak the way he speaks it: lovingly, one man to another. 

As the hour grew late and his wife retired with her lady friend, Rilienus made it clear he wasn't expecting any visitors of his own.

"Can I tempt you to stay the night?"

"No," Dorian said, without giving it a second thought. "Not anymore. But thank you for the offer."

And for the second time that evening, Rilienus looked wistful, though he banished it promptly with a friendly smile.

"Well, you're always welcome to call on me. And so is your Trevelyan if ever he's here with you. I'd _love_ to meet him."

"Yes." Dorian chuckled. "I bet you would."

Before opening the door to go, he turned and reached out to clasp Rilienus' hand, squeezing it once and then letting go.

"Look out for yourself, please," he said. "I don't have enough old friends that I can afford to lose any."

And then he left, taking only the book with him and returning all alone to his fancy rented townhouse, easily paid for by the Inquisition's coffers. 

And now, sitting on the upper balcony, wearing stylish light robes with this dull old book resting against his thighs, he makes a decision. He should buy this place. It only makes sense. He'll need somewhere reliable to stay when he visits periodically as part of this new, ridiculous diplomacy gig. In a way, it's a good thing. His time in Minrathous will give him a chance to build up his network of friends and allies throughout the Imperium. But it will take him away from Trevelyan more often — and, Maker knows, he already misses that man something awful.

Wouldn't it be lovely if he were here right now? They could sit together on the balcony, drinking brandy and making rude gestures in the general direction of the chambers of the Magisterium. And when that grew dull, they could retire to the bedroom where they'd fall asleep exhausted after yet another round of athletic lovemaking. Dorian smiles to himself as he imagines the details of that scenario. 

In truth, he's forgotten all about his father, who waits downstairs. 

But he's reminded presently by a knock at the doorframe behind him. It's his personal assistant, Ellery — one of Josephine's best people, who's here to oversee his practical needs for the duration of his stay. That means everything from hiring a handful of household servants and setting up their contracts, to the daily minutiae of managing his wardrobe and calendar. (His father's present visit is entirely unscheduled and so Dorian is content to let him suffer the boredom of waiting for a few minutes more.)

"Magister Pavus has been asking rather insistently to see you. Perhaps you'd like to deal with him now?"

"Ah, yes, I will. Thank you, Ellery. You don't have to go back down there."

He doesn't wish anyone to be subjected to his father for too long. The man is imperious and exhausting on his best days — and given the stress of the current political climate, nobody's been having their best days lately. Dorian's not at all looking forward to seeing him. 

Best to get it over with. As he heads downstairs, he's already steeling himself for sight of his father's typical disapproving scowl. 

But when he arrives, the parlor is empty. 

Is that supposed to be — what? — some sort of childish punishment? Halward didn't care to wait and so he stomped his petulant feet and went away? Well, good riddance then. Dorian's about to return to his book and balcony, when he hears a noise in the other room. From the library comes the soft sound of papers shuffling. And when he peers in through the open doorway, he sees his father standing at the desk, leafing through pages where his hands and eyes are most unwelcome.

"Oh, that's perfect, isn't it?" Dorian says. "You're told to wait in one room and here I find you in another."

"Dorian." 

Halward looks up and nods at his son in greeting, without even having the decency to seem surprised at being caught.

"You wouldn't be spying on me, would you, father? Searching for documents you can hand over to enemies of the Inquisition?"

"Of course not." 

Halward's brow creases in concern, as though he's offended by the very idea.

Oh, yes, Dorian already knew the answer was no. He wasn't asking because of a realistic worry that his father would betray him politically. He was simply making a dramatic point about Halward's inappropriate behavior — and what anyone would be well within their rights to assume was going on.

"I almost wish you'd said yes to that," Dorian says. "I think I'd find it preferable to whatever it is you're actually doing."

"I only wanted–" Halward holds up a letter, its official seal unbroken. "It's from the Magisterium. For you. Related to your appointment as ambassador. Callius was going to send a courier, but I offered to bring it myself, so I'd have reason to see you."

Dorian glances from the letter in his father's hand to the pile of papers left exposed on the desk. They were neatly arranged when last he left them. Now they are scattered, disorganized. And the letter on top is one he recognizes instantly by the broad, friendly strokes of Trevelyan's handwriting. 

That's a _very_ intimate letter. 

And now Halward has read it. Despite himself — despite that he's thirty-three years old and free from his family's interference — Dorian flinches with a sudden sense of panic. For one terrifying moment, he feels half his age, a frightened adolescent, bound to obey his parents' will and yet desperate to hide what he is from them.

But no. 

That's not his life anymore. He shakes his head, an instinctive gesture as he tries to clear away the old fears that lurk in the shadows — just remnants now. All the venomous, scuttling things are slain. He killed them for good when he left all this behind.

"You're welcome to leave my private letters alone and go."

By the sternness of his tone, it should be clear. It's not a request. And yet of course his father doesn't listen.

"I never intended to pry. That's not why I came here," Halward says. "I've been thinking about you, trying to understand you–"

Dorian interrupts him. He's heard enough to know he doesn't want the rest of it.

"I'm not some puzzle box for your clever mind to dig into."

Ten or fifteen years ago, Dorian would have been overjoyed. He would have been grateful if Halward Pavus had ever deigned to try and understand him — as if it were a kindness — as if Dorian himself were some disgusting, lowly creature so unnatural that he hardly deserved the attempt. But he's not that frightened young man anymore. 

"I need you to leave," he says, stating it more succinctly this time — in case that helps to offset any doubts.

"Dorian, please," Halward says. "I've only been worried about you."

He's the same as he ever was. The poor, baffled father who doesn't ever listen. Dorian has so much less patience for it now. Because now — unlike three years ago at the Gull and Lantern — he knows the difference. 

No one at Skyhold has ever treated him like some unfathomable conundrum. They didn't trust him at first — no, of course not — but that was understandable, what with him being from Tevinter. Their lack of knowledge about the Imperium and its advanced magic was almost painful to deal with, especially at first. Even strong, talented, powerful mages like Trevelyan were steeped in so much ignorance. But even _that_ was bearable for the sake of being there, among people who never even thought to look at him as lesser or shameful or deviantly wrong.

He never saw it clearly until now. 

What the south gave him was an alternate vantage — a better place from which to stand and see himself. It's the same place he's standing now, when he turns his gaze on Halward and takes him in. 

Dorian looks at his father and sees a proud, unimaginative man, clinging tightly to a lineage he doesn't wish to shame. He sees a man who's lonely in his marriage, but who's never thought to question why he's always been so desperately alone. In all his long years, Halward has never known the soul-baring intimacy of standing side-by-side with a partner he's chosen freely, who's chosen him, as well. He's closed himself off from all that tenderness, all that vulnerability — and he thinks it's strength to do so. But Dorian can see it plainly now. It isn't strength; it's atrophy.

"Listen to me, father," Dorian says — he's surprised for a moment at the gentle and serious sound of his own voice. 

He isn't hurt or scared, and he doesn't feel like a child anymore. 

"You can't come in here and read my letters. If you truly want to mend this, then you have a lot of work ahead of you. And I'm sorry to say this, but it won't be easy for you. It's going to hurt. And it will probably take you a long time to get there."

"Dorian..."

"See yourself out, please. I've said all I'm going to."

Halward doesn't say another word. He looks stunned for a moment and then he simply obeys. He sets the Magisterium's letter on the desk and then he exits the library as his son steps aside to let him pass. Something has shifted between them, and it won't ever go back to what it was before. 

There's relief in that, but it's also exhausting. 

And with his father gone, the only thing Dorian can do is retire to the bedroom and collapse across the mattress to stare up at the ceiling and listen to the heavy sound of his own breathing. He wishes Trevelyan were here. He'd like to talk this over — to gain comfort and insight from the man he loves. But it's another two weeks until they're together at the Winter Palace, and that seems so unbearably long and terrible.

It annoys him enough that it gives him an idea — and a good one, at that. 

He has all the funds and connections he needs to track down a pair of sending crystals. He'll acquire them and then — well, it will be wonderful. Whenever he and Trevelyan are parted for a few weeks here and there, they'll still be able to talk.

Dorian grins, inordinately pleased with himself for being so clever.


End file.
